Entrustment
by Dea Liberty
Summary: Lancelot wants to be distinguished from the crowd - he doesn't want to be just another knight to Arthur. implied AL SLASH.


**Title:** Entrustment  
**Pairing:** implied Arthur/Lancelot  
**Rating:** PG  
**Summary:** Lancelot wants to be distinguished from the crowd - he doesn't want to be just another knight to Arthur.  
**Dedication:** **michelleneth**, as an Xmas gift. Merry Christmas, sweetie, hope you enjoy it.

He spins, stabs with his right, turns, the sword twirls - then falls, clattering to the ground. He kicks it in frustration, fighting hard to let his tears of disappointment spill. He's lost count of the times he's done that this morning. He's old enough - almost nineteen summers - not to act so childishly about this, but he's been trying for _so_ long.

It was the only thing that might catch Arthur's attention.

Gawain was good, Galahad was improving by leaps and bounds, and Arthur already trusted Tristan like no other, allowing the man to go out into the woods, out scouting - and always paid attention when he reported back. Percival's riding has earned more than one comment and smile of approval from Arthur, Kay's ability with a mace, Dagonet's bravery, Bors' humour - and Lancelot, he had nothing to distinguish himself from the rest.

Nothing to hold Arthur's attention, nothing to make Arthur smile that smile or say words of approval - nothing that would get Arthur to look at him as anything but just another knight.

Lancelot sighs, steadies his breathing and picks up the sword again.

It's still too early for anyone to be out so he doesn't run the risk of embarrassing himself too much, or being questioned about his motives.

He widens his stance, brings up the blades and starts again.

Spin, cut, slice, twirl, stab and twist, slash - and the sword slips from his grasp, clattering to a stop at someone's feet.

Slowly, Lancelot raises his eyes, not really wanting to know who's caught him trying something like this - everyone insists that it's foolish to try and wield two swords - and comes face to face with the very _last_ person he wanted to see.

Arthur.

He looks away, embarrassed, before Arthur's fingers on his chin turn his face back to face him.

"This won't do at all," Arthur says, and Lancelot opens his mouth to apologise - but Arthur interrupts him. "You can't wield two of these. These are useless." He takes the Roman-issued blade from Lancelot's hand, tossing it off to the side, to lie on the ground with its companion.

Lancelot can only stare at Arthur in amazement as Arthur smiles at him, stepping away and drawing Lancelot's attention down to his hands.

He's holding out a pair of scabbards - a pair of swords.

"Take them."

He shakes his head, not being able to understand what's going on - not quite able to believe what's happening.

"Go on, Lancelot. Take them."

"But I thought…I can't," he says weakly, eyes still fixed on the swords. He wants to - he wants to so badly because they look so perfect. But he wants to take them - because he doesn't know if he can use them as well as they deserved to be used.

"Lancelot, if you don't - no one else will. _I_ certainly can't use these." He pushes them towards Lancelot again. "Take them."

He turns Lancelot's hands over gently, then places the swords there. They felt so right, just resting there in his hands - lighter than the Roman ones, shorter, sharper - but he still felt the weight of expectations on top of them.

"Arthur, I can't. They say that no one can wield two swords successfully." He offers them back hesitantly, but Arthur just closes his hands around them, resting his own hands over Lancelot's.

"I knew a great Sarmatian knight once," he starts, not letting go, "who wielded these swords. He was my father's second in command and I idolised him almost as much as I did my father. You remind me a lot of him."

"I am not him," Lancelot states calmly. "I cannot wield these."

"You are your own man, Lancelot. And you are the _only_ one who can wield these." Arthur raises one hand, tips Lancelot's chin so that he's forced to meet Arthur's eyes. "I've watched you this morning. I've watched you for a while. You want to wield two swords, Lancelot, you can't deny that."

"Then you saw for yourself that I cannot use two swords."

"I don't see you giving up." He steps away, leaving the swords in Lancelot's hands. "Try. Let me see you try using them, Lancelot."

Hesitantly, glancing at Arthur, he draws the swords, listening to the wonderful sound the twin demons made, slipping so smoothly out of their sheathes, fitting perfectly in his hands.

He takes a deep, steadying breath before starting the routine he's been working on again, doing his best to ignore Arthur's presence - which was making him quite nervous.

Twirl - easier than before - stab, thrust, slash, spin, twirl - and the over swing causes the sword to slip from his fingers.

He catches his bottom lip between his teeth, clenching his hand tight, squeezing his eyes shut for a moment before snapping them open to glare angrily at Arthur. "See?"

But Arthur's handing him the sword, closing his hand around it again, then stepping behind him.

"Take up your stance," he orders quietly, breath ghosting over Lancelot's neck.

Still hesitating but knowing that he couldn't - wouldn't - obey Arthur's command, he tightens his grip on the sword, straightens his back and prepares to start again.

But Arthur fits himself around him, one leg kicking his apart slightly, a hand straightening up his back even more. "You think that your left side is more vulnerable, meaning that you tend to over swing." Gently, patiently, Arthur leads him, guiding his arms, making sure his stance stays centred and stable.

And Lancelot, unlike his reputation suggests, unlike his usual reaction to others trying to teach him, to tell him what to do - Lancelot lets Arthur lead him, unable and unwilling to disobey.

He watches the flicker of disbelief cross Bors' face, a murmur of amazement ripple through the gather crowd as he draws both his swords from their scabbards on his back, adjusting his stance as he remembers Arthur doing for him, swinging them with practised ease and a confidant smirk.

The stunned look never leaves Bors' face from the moment the swords are drawn until he's lying flat on his back, Lancelot's sword under his chin, still gaping at the younger knight.

Lancelot looks up, grinning broadly, eyes scanning the crowd until he finds the one person he's looking for.

Arthur.

Arthur's lips curl, a proud, fond smile - reserved just for him - and mouths "I told you so", at which Lancelot just tips his swords in acknowledgement, thanks and respect.

Perhaps - Lancelot considers, kneeling down next to Arthur, re-sheathing his swords and putting his hand on Arthur's shoulder - just perhaps Arthur had really seen something in Lancelot that day, all those years ago. Or perhaps his twin swords were made to serve beside Excalibur.

Arthur looks up at him, eyes filled with grief, pain, insecurity, and Lancelot wraps him up in an embrace.

Whatever it was, Lancelot wouldn't traded Arthur's trust, Arthur's belief in him - to him, symbolised by his swords - for anything. And he hopes the former owner of his swords had been able to support Uther like this, like he supports Arthur. Like Uther had entrusted Excalibur - and all the responsibilities that came with it - to Arthur so, Lancelot believes, that Sarmatian knight had, unknowingly, entrusted his to him.

For as long as he could wield those swords, he vows silently as Arthur buries in face in Lancelot's neck, he would wield them for Arthur.


End file.
